


Pauper

by seazu



Series: That's Life [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Shameless (US)
Genre: Crossover, Dragon Age AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-28
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-10-12 08:56:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10487058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seazu/pseuds/seazu
Summary: Dragon Age II crossover AU -- Mickey is an Elf living in the Kirkwall Alienage, Ian is a Human Mage who does odd-jobs for money. He travels into the city on one such job and runs into Mickey who decides to help him in exchange for help getting out of Kirkwall.Part of the 'That's Life' series -- a handful of unrelated AUs based on the song by Frank Sinatra.(You don't have to have read any of the others to read this one)





	1. Finally Free

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of a series of AUs I'm doing based on the song That's Life by Frank Sinatra. I wrote these as short RPs with my amazing partner in Crime and the best Ian ever: OfficialStarsAndGutters and you can check out her writing here: https://archiveofourown.org/users/officialstarsandgutters (and you really should because she's a billion times better at this than me)
> 
> So 90% of this is based on our RP and I just want to take a moment to thank her for indulging in my adoration of Dragon Age AUs when her main experience of the games is me blabbering on about it non-stop.

For as strict as Mickey knew them to be, the Kirkwall Guard didn’t seem to be doing a great fucking job of keeping the bad sorts out. He was watching them stride through with barely a question asked, and he knew they were scum. Not just because they were mostly Shem and in his experience they were all worthless assholes (always quick to the phrase _knife-ear_ , always quick to raise a hand, always quick to judge); but he could read them like he could read anyone. Had to have a keen eye when you lived here. You had to know who had a knife concealed, or who was as much watching you as you were them, who likely had money, who glanced around too much in that obvious sign of suspicion.

Mickey was perched near the marketplace, if you could call it that. Ramshackle stalls that looked about ready to keel over, manned by women with more warts than face and those shrill voices that made his ears ache. Keeping his hood up helped, covered his face, his pointed ears, flat nose and too-large eyes; and blocked out some of the worst noises. Let him focus on finding a target. This part of the city wasn’t as lively as Lowtown, but it was still bustling with the noise of people coming and going, market-sellers yelling, Guards arguing with people now and again, gulls squawking above, children running and shouting, the occasional Chantry Mother doing whatever those old bags wheeze on about. _Magic is something serve something blah blah rule over something sunburst love or what-fucking-ever._ All garbage as far as he was concerned. Not that he put any faith in Elven God’s neither.

He hadn’t exactly had a traditional upbringing. His father wasn’t really the type to be teaching him much about the old ways every night around a fire. What he knew, he’d learned from the stories of an old Dalish Elf who’d wound up here because they have some fucking weird rule about not having too many Mages in one clan, because -- you know, usual old spiel about Magic being dangerous as shit and Demons and Abominations, and all of those Templars are useful for something but Dalish don’t have Templars they just have Aravels and Halla and walking sticks. So if you get all magicky and try to burn down the village or whatever, you’re out.

Most people walking through didn’t take his interest. He wanted someone who looked easy to rob and worth the effort. Not that he didn’t like a challenge, but he was pretty fucking good so there weren’t many challenges left in the small world of Kirkwall. His whole world. He’d never stepped foot outside the walls, no reason to leave, no purpose. No way -- he’s pretty sure as lax as the Guard seemed to be about letting people in, letting an Elf out into the wilds must be hard -- why else would everyone else stick around in the Alienage? But he thrives here, he knows the city like the back of his hand, he’s fast, light on his feet _and_ with his fingers. He rarely has to use his blades, but when he does, he’s quick, precise and very deadly.

Mickey used to find comfort in the familiarity of it, but now it was stifling. He was beginning to stagnate here, to lose track of days and get lost in the repetition. What worried him was the idea he would turn into his father and find comfort in ale to break up every day, or… meld them into one. Not that he didn’t drink, not that he didn’t smoke Elfroot when he could get his hands on it, not that he didn’t do most things a good boy shouldn’t, but not the way his father did, and he would give anything to get away from that.

He was beginning to give up hope of someone new and naive coming through when a prime target shuffled into sight. It was hard to tell past the shadow of the gate but he didn’t look that old. He always found it tricky to put an age on Shem, but he couldn’t have been older than twenty. He looked beyond exhausted, too. Dragged backwards slightly by whatever was in his pack, something of value probably? Confirmed when he strained to hear him say something to the Guard about business. That seemed promising. Whatever it was, he could probably sell it in Lowtown if not make the delivery himself and claim the reward. He lifted himself from the ground and started moving, leaving a good gap between him and the Shem, mostly sticking to shadows where he could.

It became abso-fuckin-lutely obvious to him that this guy had never been to Kirkwall when he veered down an alley that anyone with a lick of sense would know is only worth heading down if you wanted to get robbed. He hung back farther when, sure enough, two large men stepped into his path, forcing the Redhead to come to a halt and look up slowly at them. Not exactly well armoured but one carried a heavy Axe and the other a sword, probably neither trained but their heft and blades were enough to make them trouble.

Now that he had the chance, he was giving the Shem a proper look-over. He appeared fairly normal, though, just your typical weary traveller, sun-battered and yet somehow still pale like he hadn’t slept for days, dark under his eyes, everything about him seemed slow and sunken. He was tall and lean, with hair pushed back and falling forward all at once. Normal, until his eyes fell to the hands hanging by his sides, the air around them had started to glimmer in response to the threat ahead. Mickey could smell them from here, two rotten Shem looking like they’d just bathed in a Nug-Sty, and Red stood in their two-headed shadow, barely a trace of an expression. It was the first time in a long while Mickey had seen a face like that -- he must kill at Wicked Grace.

“You aren’t from ‘round here, Stranger are you?”

“Course he ain’, if he were he’d know there’s a tax to pay to pass through here.”

“That’s right, Stranger, what’ll it be -- your coin or your life?”

Mickey’s eyes were trained to his hands though, unlike the thugs who were too busy pushing out their chests and jerking off the handles of their weapons like the idiots they were. He was focused on the pale blue tendrils tracing down his hand like veins, glowing, the air around it turning opaque white with the cold. It was clear to him what the real trouble was. But he wouldn’t be a Milkovich if he didn’t see opportunity as it rose. He slipped out of sight briefly and reappeared behind the men, still concealed by shadows, their focus still on the Human, who had looked up at them like he wasn’t processing what they were saying exactly.

“Well?” one of them said, stepping forward with his best impression of menacing, clearly pissed that the guy wasn’t looking even slightly scared, if anything he looked like he was about to fall asleep on his feet.

When they raised their weapons, the Shem raised his hand, in a reactionary way to protect himself from any impending blow, and it was only then when it was shoved in their faces did they notice the magic leaking from him like an old tap. He took his chance then to cut loose the coinpurses from their belts in one swift strike before disappearing out of sight and out of the way of any potential explosion over this whole magic thing. He hadn’t seen any Mages like this before, one out of the circle, not in any stupid robes (fucking dresses). Guy didn’t even have a staff, what kind of Mage didn’t have a staff? It was kind of disappointing, but still interesting.

But he had more coin than could easily be carried now and really no need to go after this guy -- wasn’t entirely sure he should be anywhere near him now, honestly. If the stories were anything to go by, he was dangerous and Mickey didn’t really want to wake up dead over something that may or may not be valuable, that’s for sure

Those thugs seemed to be thinking the same thing as they exchanged what should have been a brief glance, but because they’re actually about as thick as a Qunari’s dick, it took at least a full minute for them to silently convey to each other that they didn’t want to die and as such should run. Mickey rolled his eyes but kept his distance, watching Red just pass through, dropping his hands back limp to his sides.

Shit, what’s it like having people just run and leave you alone like that. He knew if it had been him he’d have been mocked and potentially beaten; because he’s fast and good with his knives but he’s not as strong as two brick walls. They sure as hell wouldn’t run from him at a glance of his knives. Magic like that must come in useful at least twice a day. He wondered if this guy was ever in the Circle or if he’s on the run or in hiding. That could probably be used to his advantage somehow.

He watched him from afar for about as long as it took his glowy hands to calm down, followed him in circles, since he didn’t seem to know his way and didn’t seem to have the ability to talk or… strength to ask someone for directions, at least. When it seemed safer, he dropped down in front of him and raised his hands, “I ain’t gonna tax you or nothin’ Shem, I got an offer for you.” The guy frowned a bit at the word _Shem_ and Mickey had to wonder if he’d ever even talked to an Elf before, but then he tilted his head up like he was listening, so he just continued in airing his proposition. “I saw you before, you got Magic, right? You’re a Mage. Only you don’t look like none of the other Mages I’ve ever seen. You’re lost too, but I reckon you must be a delivery boy of some kind, so I tell you what. You tell me where you’re headed and I’ll get you there before you get attacked by some _more_ bandits -- and you will, ‘cause you’re headed bad places the way you’re fuckin’ wandering -- and cause some big magical scene that gets you dragged off by Templars. I’m a real fuckin’ nice guy, so I’ll do that for you, and all I want is for you to take me outta this city. Take me to some other town or a Dalish Clan or some shit -- you see any on the way here?”

The guy seemed to be listening. Mickey thought he was, anyway, but a silence stretched and he doesn’t seem to emote, or even fuckin’ blink. He was just staring off into the middle distance with dead eyes in a way that made Mickey’s stomach twist uncomfortably for some reason. Then he just shook his head and started to walk again.

Mickey flared up, raising his hands again, desperate suddenly, “hey hey, fuck you, fuckin' wait,” but he wasn’t waiting, he was dragging his feet one after the other in probably the wrong direction again. “I can pay you.”

That stopped him. That stopped him right in his tracks. And he turned his head enough to look back for a few long moments before he reached in his pocket and pulled out a little bit of parchment, holding it out to Mickey.

He scanned it quickly and looked up before jerking his thumb and heading off towards the address written on the page. Back to Hightown, one of the fucking mansions. He _knew_ it would be something valuable. But he was huffy now because he would have to part with some of his freshly obtained gold.

The silence that fell between them was a little unnerving at first, and he tried to break it a few times by saying things like, “what’s your name,” and “where’re you from?” and “you don’t talk much, do you?” but eventually he gave up and just focused on leading him through the city, avoiding the worst parts. He needed to keep him in one piece now, until they got somewhere outside of Kirkwall. He couldn’t quite believe he was so close to it, that he was actually going to leave here, branch out on his own and make a life for himself that maybe wasn’t just stealing. It didn’t take him long to get the guy there, and when he was at the door he pointed up, “this is it.”

He lingered away from them, across the street but not out of earshot as he lit up a little hand-rolled Elfroot cigarette. Maybe he should be keeping a clear head but he enjoyed the buzz he got from them. The way his body relaxed the more he smoked, the way it sort of cleared his head but made everything fuzzy, too. He thought he could probably use that to distract from any regrets his brain might try to convince him he had when leaving. All he could think as he watched the exchange was that maybe he should go back to the Alienage and pack, but he didn’t want to let Red out of his sight and he didn’t trust him not to just leave alone, despite their deal. So he would just have to survive with what he had on him, and buy the rest when he had the chance. Most of the stuff he considered important was in his pack anyway, since he didn’t trust anyone at home with it either.

When the Shem was done, he headed over to Mickey and blinked at him slowly. The Elfroot only made Mickey blink slowly back before he processed the fact that Red didn’t know the way back from his own elbow, so he shook his head hoping to waken up enough to lead them out. "Maybe we should spend the night at the tavern, my treat," he said, tapping one of the coinpurses to make it jingle. But the mage only shook his head. "You sure, you look like you could use the sleep. Best to leave in the morning right?" He looked at Mickey for a few long moments, and then he just started to walk back the way they came, to the best of his own recollection. There was a moment when Mickey tried to decide if it would be best to just let him go and forget all of this, or to follow him. It didn't take him long to decide, and did his best to stay alert in spite of the self-induced haze, and led them back towards the gates.

Red stepped ahead of him once they were there, apparently eager to get going again despite the fact that he looked tired enough to keel over at any second. Mickey sucked in some air before he followed him, bracing himself for abuse from the guard, even though his hood was up. Waiting for some kind of fall-out. Waiting for his dreams to get quashed as they often did. But, nothing happened. The Guard let them pass through with barely a second glance, and before he could even process it, he was outside the gate. Breathing non-Kirkwall air, walking on non-Kirkwall land.

Somehow this surprised a laugh out of him and he looked up to his unresponsive companion, and then turned on his heel to walk backwards and look up at the walls of the city. He shook his head and raised two middle fingers to it, finally free. And then pointed to guards while they were still in sight, “fuck you, fuck you and _especially, fuck you!”_

He was _free._ The thought sailed through him and swept him up, bringing a smile to his face more genuine than he can ever remember having. Sure he’d left his family behind without so much as a word, and sure people might think he was abducted by slavers or killed or maybe both. But who gave a fuck, about him anyway? Maybe his sister, or some of his brothers. _Maybe._ But maybe it was better that way; better that they presumed him dead.

Mickey could feel Red’s eyes on him, empty as they were, it wasn’t freaking him out right now, because he was walking away from Kirkwall. He was grinning too, because every step was the farthest away from it he’d ever been and he felt absolutely consumed by that idea, and it only brought him more joy. He had the opportunity now to live life on his own terms and he was damn fucking well gonna take every chance he got.

He glanced over at the Shem again, and thought, maybe Magic wasn’t as bad as everyone said.


	2. F.U.C.K S.H.E.M

Almost every morning of his life, Mickey had woken up in the same bed, in the same room of the same cramped shack. Bar the few mornings he’d woken up in someone else’s bed, or on the street somewhere, and perhaps a few other exceptions, but very few. Never had he ever woken up in a tent. Never had he ever woken up somewhere so quiet. 

He blinked around himself blearily as he tried to piece together the last few hours of his life before he’d fallen asleep. Walking. There had been a lot of walking, until the Shem he was with had stopped walking, and started setting a camp up. He remembered watching him with an intensity, just to try and commit the process to memory, despite how tired he was, and how badly his feet ached. He was not used to walking such distances, his shoes were not made for this, they were barely shoes, more like worn-out cloth just strapped to his feet. He could still feel the ache up his shins where he lay and he absolutely didn’t want to get up again. 

He remembered sitting by the fire the Shem had built after helping him gather some dry wood, feeling the cold radiate from him almost as strong as the waves of heat that came from the flames. He thought maybe that was a symptom of his cold magic. Seemed to make sense. He had mostly stared blankly at the flames, until he produced some strips of dried meat and offered some to Mickey, which he had devoured pretty quickly. Hunger beating out his distrust. He remembered curling up in the tent far away from the Shem and trying to avoid the cold rolling from him. 

It took Mickey a long time to coax himself up and out of the tent. He was hungry and tired and filthy and he’d only spent one night outside the walls. He could still smell the sea. He almost wished he could find the water just so he could take a dip and wash off, but he had absolutely no idea how to swim, so a second later that seemed like a terrible enough idea to dismiss. 

When he made it into the daylight, the last thing he expected was the Shem to be walking around the camp humming to himself and smiling lightly, brightened when he met Mickey’s eyes, “oh! You’re up, finally! Good morning! How did you sleep?”

“Uhh…” Mickey could only blink. Up until then he was convinced the guy absolutely couldn’t speak. So he could only stare, bewildered.

“I slept great! I’ve been up for hours, too, I managed to catch us breakfast, and find some eggs, oh and there’s water nearby, a little stream, if you want to get washed. I left my spare cloak out too -- I keep it just in case mine gets damaged or wet or too dirty, just so I have something else to wear, but you can have it until we get to the next town or… what did you say, a Dalish Clan? I haven’t really seen any, but you never know!”

Mickey continued to blink during the word vomit as it poured from his mouth, and then he scowled, “what the fuck, Shem, I thought you couldn’t fuckin’ speak!”

“Oh no, I just… I was tired, that’s all. I don’t speak a lot when I get tired. Hey, why do you call me Shem, is that an Elf word? What does it mean? My name’s Ian, what’s yours?”

“It means-- It’s a word for Humans. Shemlen.” He shook his head, trying to process each rush of words as they came. He eyed him with suspicion still though, “Mickey.”

“That’s not a very Elfy name.”

“I didn’t pick it.”

“I guess not.” He was still smiling and it made Mickey feel a little nervous. But then Ian just patted the ground near him and lifted some meat he’d cooked on a spit over the fire. Mickey hesitated for almost a second before his stomach protested and ultimately won out, and he took a seat on the ground, a little away from Ian. Taking the meat and eating it straight off the stick. 

He had the chance to enjoy it for all of a few moments before he heard the grass rustle with something heavier than the wind behind them, followed by a low rumble. The fire or the smell of cooking meat had attracted  _ something  _ and he was on his feet to defend himself in seconds. Reaching at his belt for his knives before he realised he’d taken them off the night before. He had to scramble for the tent and by that point three snarling, snapping wolves had emerged into their clearing.

Ian was on his feet as swiftly as he could manage, just a little behind Mickey, who had made it to the tent but cornered himself against it to get to his weapons, but he felt better for having them. He had raised a part of a branch that was meant for the fire to defend himself against them, but Mickey was too concerned by the wolf that was edging towards him to worry about someone else right then. Its head was lowered to the ground and tail swaying slightly as a growl ripped from its chest. He readied his blades and prepared himself for the first attack. Yellowed teeth snapping at him, and he did his best to keep light on his feet despite fatigue but he could already feel the adrenaline kicking in. His quick cuts were not enough to distract the wolf from his prize and it took him just a few attacks before the wolf used its weight against Mickey to pin him to the ground. He pushed his arms up against it’s throat to try and avoid getting his face ripped off. He could smell rotting meat straight from it’s belly, but once he got his balance it didn’t take long for him to plunge and drag his knife across its throat and leave it whining and finally limp, bleeding over Mickey until he managed to push it aside. 

He got up just in time to see the last of the wolves get blown back by a ball of flame and lie singed on the grass among other scorch marks. Mickey stared at Ian, mouth hanging slightly agape. “I… thought your magic was ice magic.”

Ian shrugs, “I’m not… I’m not a mage or anything it’s just a thing I can do.”

Mickey stares at him confused, which was becoming far too frequent an occurrence for his liking. He looked at the charred corpses and back to Ian, “sorry to break it to you, Shem, but you’re a fuckin’ Mage. And I’m guessin’ you ain’t never been to no circle, have you?”

He shook his head slowly and his eyebrows drew together with some concern, “should I have?”

“Probably better that you didn’t, means you ain’t on the run, but you ever cause any trouble I’m pretty sure that’s the first place they’ll send you.”

“Why? Is it like prison?”

“You don’t know?”

“My family live away from the cities, so we don’t--”

“Yeah but isn’t the whole circle mage thing pretty common knowledge?”

It was Ian’s turn to blink for a while then, and then he smiled brightly, “that burnt fur smell is awful, we should get rid of these.”

Mickey looked at him for another moment before he looked back at the wolves,” we could probably skin that one, maybe get decent leather from the others. Some meat, too.”

“You know how to do that?”

He shrugged, “I used to do it when I was younger for money, before I realised it was easier and better money to steal them and sell them to someone else.”

Ian laughed and then shrugged again, starting to move the wolves and take out his knife to start skinning with Mickey.

~

Mickey finally took Ian up on the offer to wash himself in the river after they’d been skinning for a while. It wasn’t ideal, no matter how often he washed in cold water it never normalised for him. He was small, underweight, always found it hard to keep heat. He stripped down when he was alone and washed the blood off himself as quickly as he could before he, shivering, knelt by the bank and did what he could to wash his clothes free of blood and dirt. He only had Ian’s cloak to keep himself covered after that, vibrating with the cold by the time he came back to the camp. 

His teeth chattered as he sat again by the fire, clutching his wet clothes. 

There was a softness to Ian’s smile that Mickey didn’t like. As if he saw him like some little defenceless child. It got under his skin, his nose turned up automatically as he regarded him, watched Ian put together some little construction of twine and sticks by the fire before he came over and took Mickey’s clothes and hung them to dry. 

“Huh.”

“What?”

“I didn’t notice those before, when you had your gloves on.”

“What?”

“Your tattoos.”

“They’re not--”

“What are they?”

Mickey looked at his hands. He covered them so purposefully now that he almost forgot the words painted across them existed. F U C K  S H E M. Dark, fine letters embedded in his skin. “They’re Vallaslin.”

“What does that mean?”

~

“What do they mean?” Mickey asked, invading her space to look more closely at the lines adorning her face.

The older elf smiled softly, never phased by his incessant questions. “They’re called Vallaslin, or Blood Writing, to some. These are the markings of Mythal. My clan worshiped Mythal and these tattoos were to show our devotion to her.”

Mickey tilted his head as he observed them for a few moments longer before he sat again, opposite her. “How do you get them?”

“When you come of age, normally, the Clan leader applies them. It happens in complete silence-”

“Why?”

“Because any noise in the face of pain is a sign the child isn’t yet prepared to take on the responsibility of adulthood.”

Mickey was quiet as he processed that, taking it to heart.

“You meditate on the Gods and ways of the Dalish, your body is cleansed and purified, and then the ritual is completed with Vallaslin.”

“I don’t think I believe in the Gods. Are there any that aren’t Gods?”

“What do you believe in?”

“I don’t know… That everyone’s an Asshole.”

She smacked his knuckles quickly and painfully without a second thought.

“Ow! Fuck!”

“Dirthara-ma, Dal’en.”

“Ir abelas…” 

“Learn what you believe in, and I’ll help you complete the ritual.”

“Really?”

“Of course, Dal’en.”

Mickey smirked, “you’ll have to stop calling me, Dal’en, then.”

“Never.”

~

“You can’t read?”

“No, I know it says Fuck Shem but… why?”

Mickey snorted, looking away, “how hard has it been for you to not call me Knife Ear, yet?”

“What?”

“You’re all the same, you see my kind and you just assume I’m some street-rat thief.”

“Didn’t you… rob the men who tried to rob me?”

“Yeah but that ain-”

“And did you live on the streets-”

“No, I fuckin’ lived in the Alienage. It’s a fuckin’ shanty town but I had a roof. Part of a roof. Point is, your fuckin’ kind took everything from my kind. And you still take more. The Northerners keep us as slaves, the Southerners treat us like animals. Worse than animals.”

“I don’t think of you that way.”

He laughed bitterly, turning away, “sure you don’t.”

“I told you, my family keep away from everything, I’ve never even talked to an Elf before.”

Mickey side eyed him, regarding him with distrust but it was at least mixed with curiosity at that point.

“You’re still shivering,” Ian said, as if it wasn’t obvious to Mickey already.

“Course I fuckin’ am, I’m soaking and I’m fuckin’ half naked and it’s cold.”

Without thinking, Ian moved to sit closer to Mickey, who immediately skittered away from him. “The fuck are you doing?”

“I… was going to warm me up.”

“No you fuckin’ weren’t. You’re cold as balls, Ice-man.” He said, recalling the frost radiating from him as they tried to sleep.

Ian just smiled again, that infuriating smile that made Mickey feel like he was missing the punchline. And then he stretched out his hand. Mickey all but sniffed it like some frigid animal before he extended his own hand to hover above Ian’s palm and was surprised to feel waves of heat coming from him now. He frowned, rolled his tongue along his teeth, “how’s that?”

“What?”

“You were ice cold last night.”

Ian shrugged, “it just changes sometimes. Comere.”

He edged closer, but only slightly. Ian didn’t push it though, they just sat by the fire and occasionally Ian threw a little more wood on while they waited for clothes to dry and meat to cook.

“We might of as fuckin’ well stayed at the Inn,” Mickey said, to no response. Moving closer little by little, enticed by the heat from Ian, but trying his best not to be obvious about it. Maybe Ian noticed, maybe he didn’t, but he didn’t show Mickey either way. 


End file.
